


Nightmares

by digitalScribbler



Series: Crossed Threads [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Canon, Flashbacks, Gen, Nightmares, Superpowers, Trauma, a study in perspective, and yet here we are, bad memories, kind of a triptych, metahuman, nonbinary characters - Freeform, ptsd maybe?, victor doesn't deserve any of this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28058391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/digitalScribbler/pseuds/digitalScribbler
Summary: Sometimes the nightmares are like being back.Other times it’s like being in a haze.But the worst are when he flashes back to the hours before it all happened.
Series: Crossed Threads [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2175429
Kudos: 1
Collections: Canon, Price Brothers





	Nightmares

Sometimes the nightmares are like being back, down to the sharp, searing pain of chemical burns and broken ribs and the choking fumes of battery acid as the smoke stings his eyes. Victor gasps for breath and feels the ache of lungs not quite full as he barely manages to pull himself off the ground. He goes from a shuffle to an uneven walk, then to a half-jog, his whole body shuddering as a hundred nerve endings scream at once, but after a while his brain simply stops registering anything and it fades into the background. All that stays sharp through his pain-addled brain is the instinct to get away and the gut-wrenching feeling of desperation and betrayal.

Other times, it’s like being in a haze, Victor viewing events as a ghost from ten feet up. The scene is always the same - three slumped shapes flung into walls and mostly corroded past recognition, two cracked and crumbling buildings, and one crater billowing sulfur-yellow smoke with the twisted remains of what used to be a van. Then, hesitantly, as if in shock, a shape begins to move from the center of haze, slowly emerging like a ghost and recognizable only by their wild, curly hair and worn-out running shoes. In these ones there’s never many sounds - it’s just a sharp, steady ringing punctuated by the uneven footfalls of the lone survivor, rubber crunching on pulverized asphalt. 

The worst are when he flashes back to the hours before it all happened. The parts Victor has almost completely blocked out come racing back to mind, one after the other after the other. They’re barely full sequences, more like feelings or snapshots, short but overwhelming all the same. 

He remembers playful words exchanged in passing with someone he’d rather forget, blissfully unaware they’d be their last exchange. ‘I’ll be right back’ - a promise to return that never came true - and the sturdy slam of a window. 

They remember sounds of heavy breathing and the familiar feeling of wind rushing past their face, the thrill of being on a run no more remarkable than any other day but just as liberating. The feeling of flying, jumping half-walls and banisters, keeping an eye out for anyone who may be following, all par for the course.

He remembers an open parking lot, the heat from the late afternoon sun just starting to warm the pavement. The skid of tires on asphalt and the hard opening of doors, accompanied by shouting. Tense, shadowy figures, faces blurry but voices clear. 

The adrenaline of a fight, steeped in fear and panic. The sting of a punch, then the bite of concrete and the muffled sound of shattering glass.  
It’s loud all at once, and then everything cuts to black.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> This is one of the first things, if not THE first thing, I ever wrote for Victor, and it feels odd to post. I hope you enjoyed it, however short it may be.
> 
> Victor is part of a story I'm telling with pepperdot, so check out our collection to read more about them and their world!


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